


Breathless

by littleblackfox



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: A gift for the lovely queen, Fail!sex, I fucking love that name, M/M, pissy!skinny!steve 4eva, shrinkyclinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 09:08:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7751683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackfox/pseuds/littleblackfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He likes the guy. Likes that he's six feet of piss and vitriol in a 90lb body, likes the wrinkle in his brow when he's sketching, likes the way he presses pencil to paper, all bold movements and elegant lines. Likes the way he approaches everything like it's a battlefield.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathless

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lilithduvare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithduvare/gifts).



> The wonderful Lilithduvare was an endless source of information on Hungary for chapter 4 of The Atchin Tan. I couldn't have written it without her knowledge of public transport, street food, the state of the Danube and tourist grade pálinka.  
> I promised to write for something in thanks. And this is what happened.  
> Thank you, Queen! I hope you like it, and sorry for breaking you

The bar at Howling Commandos is always rammed on a Friday night. Bucky elbows his way to the front and manages to catch the eye of the barman, Clint. He mouths ‘Whisky’ to him. Clint is stone deaf, not that you can hear anything with the music so loud that the bassline thrums through your boots and shudders up your spine, so he keeps his hearing aid turned off. As long as you’re not slurring when you order he can lip read fine. If you’re slurring too bad for him to understand? Well there’s a blond wall of beef called Thor who’ll happily suggest a glass of water and toss you out on your ass if you get pissy about it.  
Clint nods and pours a double while Bucky fumbles in his too-tight jeans for change, handing over his money and taking his shitty bourbon with a nod. Clint winks at him and moves on to the next customer as Bucky turns and works his way out of the crush.  
He scans the floor while sipping his drink, lips twisting at the burn. The dance floor is a heaving mass of gyrating flesh. Bucky doesn’t feel up to fighting his way through sweaty PVC and denim, so heads up the rickety steel staircase, his prosthetic hand knocking against the handrail with a soft metallic ring. He steps onto the mezzanine overlooking the dance floor and walks past the benches with couples, and the occasional threesome, making out like teenagers under the flourescent lights to the cluster of tables and chairs at the far end. He runs his right hand along the guardrail, knocking his fingers against the metal bars absently.  
The tables are all occupied with people drinking and leaning in to each other, voices raised to be heard over the music. Bucky casts his gaze over the tables and hesitates.  
At the far table, overlooking the club below there’s a guy with a bottle of water and a sketch book, drawing the press of bodies below.

He’s skinny and small, maybe a year or two younger than Bucky, with dark blond hair, blue eyes and furrowed brow. His grey t-shirt is spattered with paint and frayed around the collar. Bucky watches as he glances up from his sketch, glares at the crowd below and hunches back over his picture, scratching at the paper like it has personally offended him. Bucky takes a sip of bourbon and walks over to his table.  
There’s not much point in trying to make himself heard over the music from a distance, so Bucky puts his hand on the back of the empty chair opposite and tilts his head. The guy looks up at him and shrugs before returning to his sketch. Bucky sits down and shifts his chair closer, waiting for a pause in the music to lean forward and say hello.  
The guy doesn’t respond, so he leans closer and touches a finger to the edge of the sketch book. The guy recoils and snatches his picture away with a scowl.  
Damnit he’s cute when he’s pissed off.  
Bucky waves and says hello again. This time the guy understands, and turns his head so Bucky can see the hearing aid tucked behind his ear. It’s bright blue and has a cartoon clownfish on it. Bucky grins and sits back, adjusting the sleeves of his jacket under the flashing disco lights before signing out his name. The guy raises his eyebrows, and after a moment mutters that his name is Steve before returning to his sketch.  
Bucky watches him draw for a minute before tapping the sketchbook again, laughing as Steve snatches it away and glares at him. He signs again, askin if he wants a drink. Steve shakes his head.  
“I’m not interested,” he snaps and ducks his head down again.  
Bucky swallows down the knot of disappointment in his throat and sits back. He shifts his chair back and sips his terrible bourbon, watching Steve out of the corner of his eye. Swing an’ a miss, Barnes, he thinks to himself, idly drumming his fingers on the brushed aluminium table.  
Steve glances up at the tapping, a strobe light crosses the table, reflecting silver and white on the tapping metal fingers. Steve swears softly and drops his pencil, and Bucky snatches his hand off the table. Fuck. He tugs at his right sleeve. Fuckin’ strobe lights.  
Steve picks up his pencil and mutters an apology while Bucky shakes his head, waving him away and getting to his feet. Stupid fuckin’ idea coming out anyway.  
Steve sets his sketchbook on the table and gets up with him, muttering something he doesn’t catch amidst the noise. Bucky shakes his head and leans closer, and Steve points to his hand. Oh. Of course he wants to look at it, sat there with his art supplies and his pretty face like Bucky could actually say no to him. 

Bucky sighs and sits back down, pushing up his sleeve to expose the metal plates up his arm. Steve pulls his chair closer and sits, their knees knocking together, and ghosts a hand over the interlocking plates. Bucky watches him closely, his wide blue eyes and pursed lips. Steve doesn’t look disgusted or scared, he looks at the arm like it’s a piece of art, fascinated and curious. Bucky lifts his wrist and presses the back of his hand to Steve’s long, slender finger. Steve flinches, glancing up at Bucky with a questioning look. Bucky nods and holds his arm out.  
Steve’s face lights up, and he traces his fingers over the curved metal plates, smoothing his palms along the forearm and running his fingernails along the seams between each plate. He curls his fingers around the wrist, running his thumb over the palm while he cradles the back of the hand in his loosely cupped hand.  
It feels nice, having someone touch him with such curiosity, without fear or revulsion. There are temperature gauges and pressure sensors under the plates, hardwired to his neural network. He doesn’t _feel_ as such, but his brain interprets the signals. He recognises firm pressure as Steve pinches a fingertip between thumb and forefinger, light pressure when Steve brushes his fingers over the crook of his elbow. Bucky clenches his fist and _flexes_ , and the plates lift and resettle, like a bird ruffling its feathers. Steve lets out a soft laugh and tries to dig a fingernail under a plate and lever it up, chuckling as Bucky squirms under his touch. Bucky pinches at Steve’s ribs with metal fingers and Steve slaps him away, poking him in the stomach.  
“Ow, you little fucker,” Bucky yelps and Steve snorts at him, getting a hand under his jacket and digging fingers into his armpit. Bucky lets out an undignified squawk and pulls away, but Steve is merciless, chasing after him and jabbing him in the rib. Bucky’s laughing so much it hurts. Shoving Steve away doesn’t work because the man is a fucking _terror_ so Bucky grabs him around the waist and pulls. Steve yelps and grabs him by the shoulders and suddenly Bucky has a lap full of very still, very silent Steve.  
Bucky’s heart is pounding in his throat, Steve’s fingers gripping his jacket, wide blue eyes staring down at him. Bucky loosens his grip around Steve’s waist, expecting him to shuffle away awkwardly. But he doesn’t move. Bucky lifts his hand slowly, waiting for any flinch, or sign of discomfort, and presses cool metal fingers against Steve’s jaw, brushing his lower lip with the silvery thumb.  
Steve shudders and tips forward, crashing their mouths together.  
He kisses like he does everything, relentless and stubborn and proud, fingers tangling in Bucky's hair as he gnaws on Bucky’s lower lip, dragging it between his teeth and swiping his tongue over the reddened flesh. Bucky slides his hands under Steve’s t-shirt, thumbs grazing over his ribs and brushing over his nipples, pinching at the pebbled aureola while Steve gasps into his mouth and flicks his tongue between Bucky’s teeth. Steve pulls back suddenly.  
“Let’s get out of here,” he says breathlessly.  
Bucky nods dumbly as Steve gets up off his lap, snatches his notepad and heads for the stairs. Bucky hurries after him as he clatters down the stairs, looping an arm around Steve’s waist at the bottom of the stairs and keeping pace. 

They push their way through the throng and the heavy steel doors out onto the street, the pavement lit by streetlamps. Steve links their fingers together and leads them down the road and across the street to a nearby park, climbing over the low iron fence and striding across the grass, Bucky stumbling along behind him.  
They duck into a cluster of trees and come out in a clearing, hidden from the street. Steve turns to face Bucky, dropping his sketchpad on the grass and pressing his back to the wide trunk of an oak tree.  
“C’mon then,” he says impatiently.  
Bucky snorts and presses up against him.  
“Well since you asked so nicely,” Bucky murmurs and leans down for a kiss.  
Steve grabs him by the shoulders and tilts his head, slotting their mouths together and running his tongue across Bucky’s teeth. Bucky nips at his mouth, light and teasing, trying to slow things down until Steve pulls away with a huff.  
“Are you gonna fuck me or what?” he snaps.  
Bucky chokes out a laugh and strokes his fingers down Steve’s arms.  
“Hey, what’s the rush?” he asks softly.  
Bucky trails the backs of his fingers down Steve’s ribs. He likes the guy, likes that he’s six feet of piss and vitriol in a 90lb body, likes the wrinkle in his brow when he’s sketching, likes the way he presses pencil to paper, all bold movements and elegant lines. Likes the way he approaches everything like it’s a battlefield. Bucky presses his palms to Steve’s hips and doesn’t want a quick, anonymous fuck in the darkness.  
He doesn’t know how to say any of those things without getting a punch in the face, so he ducks his head and brushes light, chaste kisses to Steve’s lips, pulling back when things start moving too fast, until Steve bites his lip hard enough to draw blood and growls into his mouth.  
“C’mon, fuck me,” Steve snarls.  
“Okay, fine,” Bucky laughs. “You got, y’know, stuff?”  
Steve frowns at him. Bucky leans down and sucks a mark on his throat.  
“Yeah,” he murmurs against Steve’s skin. “Condom, lube. That kind of thing”.  
Steve shakes his head. “It’s fine, don’t need it. C’mon,” and starts fumbling with Bucky’s belt.  
Oh, not good. Not good at all, Steve.  
Bucky takes Steve’s hands in his and pulls them down.  
“Steve, I could seriously hurt you,” he says firmly. “Don’t go pullin’ shit like that”.  
Steve shakes his hands away, a mulish look on his face. Bucky pushes his fingers under his shirt and strokes his stomach.  
“You could come back to mine?” he says quietly. “I ain’t got a nice tree, but there’s a bed,” he catches Steve’s eye and smiles, “Y’know? Bed? Much more comfortable”.  
Steve shifts and looks down, and Bucky doesn't press the issue.  
“There’s other stuff we can do,” he says with a smile.  
Steve glances up at him and Bucky leans closer, taking Steve’s hands and putting them on his shoulders. He wraps his hands around Steve’s waist and lifts him up, shoving him against the tree and pressing his body close. He cups Steve’s backside and wrap his legs around his waist. Bucky shifts his feet further apart, feels the stiff length of Steve’s cock press against his own and rocks his hips.  
Steve lets out a low whine and presses their lips together, fingers buried in Bucky’s dark hair while he gasps into his mouth. Bucky thrusts again and kisses him, slow and deep and dirty while Steve scrabbles at his shoulders and sucks on his tongue.  
They fall into a rhythm, Bucky rutting against Steve while he digs his fingers into his shoulders and pants. Steve shudders and whimpers, and Bucky can feel his heart pounding, fastening his mouth to the pulse at Steve’s throat and sucking hard enough to bruise. He nuzzles the sensitive skin behind Steve’s ear, hears his breath catch and rattle in his chest and freezes. That’s not a good sound.

Steve shifts in his grip and grumbles, tugging at the collar of Bucky’s jacket. He’s glassy eyed and breathless, his lips tinged with blue. Bucky pulls back and presses two fingers to his throat while Steve blinks slowly at him.  
“Steve, you got asthma?” Bucky asks slowly. Steve tries to catch his breath.  
“‘S fine. Keep goin’,” he wheezes.  
Bucky curses softly under his breath. “You got an inhaler?”  
Fuckin’ asthma. No wonder the little punk was in such a rush to get going. Steve fumbles in his pocket and pulls out a small blue inhaler, shakes it and shoves it in his mouth, depressing the top and breathing in. Bucky shifts to take more of his weight, using his prosthetic to take the weight off his legs while Steve counts to thirty and sucks on his inhaler again. He breathes out and glances at Bucky.  
“Okay,” he wheezes, “keep going”.  
Bucky let out a sharp laugh and shakes his head.  
“No fuckin’ way, Steve,” he says. “C’mon, let's get you home”.  
Steve shakes his head and tries to wriggle out of Bucky’s arms, but he’s still dizzy and exhausted. He punches Bucky weakly on the shoulder.  
“Ow! Pack it in.” Bucky reaches down and grabs the sketchbook, pressing it to Steve’s chest. He tightens his grip and Steve coughs and slumps against his shoulder.  
After a little coaxing he mutters an address in Bucky’s ear. It’s not too far away, so Bucky shifts Steve’s weight onto his hip, hooking his prosthetic arm under his ass and steadying him with his other hand. Steve complains but leans his head on Bucky’s shoulder and uses his inhaler again, wrapping an arm around his shoulders while Bucky carries him across the grass and steps over the low iron fence. Steve mumbles directions and Bucky walks down the street, Steve’s dangling feet knocking against his legs as he walks.  
They reach Steve’s apartment block and Bucky holds him steady while he punches in the door code, pulling the door open. They pass the lift with the out of order sign stuck to it and cross to the stairwell. Bucky climbs the endless stairs and swears under his breath while Steve chuckles in his ear. The blue tinge to his lips has gone, though he’s still pale and short of breath.  
They reach Steve’s floor, and what the fuck is an asthmatic doing in this shithole? Steve directs him along the hallway and fishes his keys out of his pocket, unlocking the door and pushing it open. Bucky walks across the threshold and kicks the door shut behind him.

It’s a cramped little place, a bedroom, a small kitchen, an even smaller bathroom and a living room that looks more like a studio with a ratty old couch dumped in it than an actual living space. There are canvases stacked against the walls, boxes and trays full of bottles and tubes of paints scattered on the floor, packets of oil pastels and sheets of heavy paper spread across something that might once have been a dining table. An easel is set up by the large window, the city lights washing the stretched canvas with sodium yellow and white.  
Bucky sets Steve down on the couch, taking the sketchbook and placing it on a coffee table stacked with books on Kandinsky and Marc. Steve shifts uncomfortably and glances around the room, avoiding Bucky's gaze.  
“‘M fine, you can go,” he mutters, fidgeting with his inhaler.  
Bucky snorts and wanders into the kitchen, filling the kettle and rummaging around in the cupboards until he finds tea and mugs. He checks the fridge and finds it empty but for a couple of overripe bananas, a half empty jar of mustard and a carton of milk. He opens the carton and sniffs warily. It doesn’t smell like death or yoghurt, so he carries it over to the mugs, filling them with water from the boiling kettle and adding a splash of milk.  
“Milk in your tea?” he calls out to Steve, who peers at him over the top of the couch and nods when he waves the carton. Bucky adds milk to the second cup and puts the carton back in the fridge.  
“You don’t have to stay,” he mutters when Bucky sets the mugs on the table. Bucky flaps a hand at him and goes to look at the canvas by the window.  
It’s a haze of shades of green, the colours blurring together. He steps back and tilts his head, squinting at the dappled effect of light and shade.  
Steve clears his throat. “I can take care of myself,” he says petulantly.  
Bucky glances over at him and flashes him a smile. “Don’t doubt it, Steve,” he says as he turns back to the painting. “But maybe I like looking after you”.  
Steve flushes a dull shade of pink and snatches his sketchbook off the table. He turns to a clean page and digs around the sofa cushions until he finds a pencil.  
“It’s… it's a canopy…” Steve mutters as he sketches.  
“Yeah, it’s looking up at trees, the light coming through the leaves,” Bucky says with a nod. “Like that one that looks all muddy up close, but if you back away far enough it’s, like, waterlilies”.  
Steve flashes him a small, soft smile. “Monet,” he says quietly.  
Bucky shrugs and takes a sip of tea, walking over to the stack of canvases against the wall and flipping through them, admiring the bold colours and fluid lines.  
“You wanna get some take out?” Bucky asks, setting his empty mug on the table. Steve’s mouth twitches.  
“You should get going,” he says, biting his lip and trying not to smile. Cheeky little shit.  
Bucky stalks over to the couch. “Nah, you’re not getting rid of me that easy,” he says, sitting on the edge of the couch. Steve smirks and drags his pencil across the page.  
“What if I want you to leave?” he murmurs.  
Bucky smiles, his eyes crinkling as he leans closer.  
“You don’t want me to leave,” he says softly.  
Something flashes across Steve’s features for a moment, a bitter twist to his lips, a twitch of his brow. And Bucky can see where his thoughts are headed in the tension in his shoulders, wonders how many times he’s heard someone ask what choice he has, pointed to his scrawny frame and told him that beggars can’t be choosers. Bucky would offer to punch every last one of them in the face, though he’s pretty sure Steve has already beaten him to it.  
Bucky glances down at the sketchbook in Steve’s hands and sees himself in the sparse, bold lines. Steve has rendered the curve of his jaw, the dimple of his chin, the messy tangle of his hair in a handful of pencil marks.  
“You like me,” Bucky says softly, tugging the sketchbook out of his hands and placing it carefully on the table.  
“Yeah,” Steve breathes.  
“And I really like you”. Bucky rests cool metal fingers against Steve’s jaw and kisses him, soft and sweet, watches his eyes flutter closed.  
“We ain’t done,” he murmurs against Steve’s mouth, moving his hand from Steve's jaw and sliding it down his chest, over his stomach to his lap. Bucky peppers his mouth with light little kisses while he unfastens Steve’s jeans, sliding chill metal fingers under the waistband of his shorts and wrapping them around his cock. Steve shudders and makes a small sound in the back of his throat as Bucky squeezes. Steve tucks his thumbs in the waistband of his jeans and pushes the fabric down his hips. Bucky runs his other hand across Steve's back, stroking across his shoulder blades.  
“You tell me if this gets too much,” he murmurs against Steve’s mouth.  
Steve huffs and drags his fingers through Bucky’s hair, pulling him close and fitting their mouths together. Bucky twists his wrist and strokes slowly, sensors registering _heat_ and _pressure_ against the metal plates. Steve moans into his mouth and thrusts up into his closed fist, his kisses becoming clumsy and frantic. Bucky feels Steve’s cock spasm and jerk in his hand and spills over metal fingers, shivering and cursing against Bucky’s mouth.  
Steve shoves Bucky down onto the couch, clumsy hands working at his belt. Bucky pushes his palms under Steve’s grey t-shirt. Warm, calloused skin and sticky, metallic digits pressing over his heart. Steve kisses him, sweet and slick and slow, his heart beating a steady rhythm against Bucky’s fingertips.


End file.
